


Kindred

by savorvrymoment



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Docking, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~Zevran is like every other Antivan Fenris has ever met: smooth, seductive, and utterly obnoxious. It's the Antivan way, it's almost as if they can't help themselves.~  Old one-shot moved from livejournal.  Written for kink_bingo in 2011.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kindred

Fenris doesn't really have an opinion of the elf when they first meet him. Zevran is like every other Antivan Fenris has ever met: smooth, seductive, and utterly obnoxious. It's the Antivan way, it's almost as if they can't help themselves. Fenris doesn't hold it against him. It's not blood magic, it's not dangerous. A bit annoying, maybe, but in the end fairly harmless.  
  
Anders has heard of him through the Wardens, and his attitude toward him is less than stellar. Isabella, on the other hand, apparently knows him intimately, and has a far more positive opinion of him. Fenris is more inclined to believe what Isabella has to say on the matter, though he can admit to himself that he's a bit biased.  
  
And it's as they stand amidst the bodies of Zevran's former comrades that the elf looks at Hawke and says, “You know? I offered my specialized services to the last blade who saved my life. It would be utterly unkind of me not to extend the same gesture to you.”  
  
Hawke seems to be dubious about the offer, especially when Zevran's eyes slide to the right to regard Fenris. Fenris gives him a raised eyebrow, and Zevran smirks back—the only real communication they've had with each other besides quick, helpful words thrown at each other during the battle. Hawke clears his throat, and says, “I'm not sure I require your, uh, 'specialized services'.”  
  
Zevran laughs, his gaze finally snapping back to Hawke. “I mean, my dear ser, my assassin services. Though I could offer my other services as well, if you have a change of heart.”  
  
“Oh, goodie!” Isabella gushes. Zevran grins lecherously.  
  
“For you, my dear Isabella,” he says, though somehow his eyes end back up on Fenris instead of Isabella. “I offer them free of charge.”  
  
“You better,” Isabella says, which makes Zevran laugh. Fenris is horribly away he's being hit on, and his ears twitch just the tiniest bit. If he were willing to admit it to himself, it's not entirely unwelcome. He's been lonely ever since he walked out of Hawke's door that night. But he's not willing to admit it, at least not yet.  
  
“He's talented,” he at least puts in. “He's been well trained.”  
  
“That's about all you can say for the Crows,” Zevran replies. “But I do thank you for the compliment.”  
  
Fenris nods his head once, an acknowledgment, while Hawke frowns, thumbing at his lip, apparently thinking it over. Anders scoffs, and says, “You can't honestly be considering this. He can't be trusted, he tried to kill the Warden. Twice!”  
  
“Only once, actually. The second time was an accident, I swear it,” he says. Then, when Anders rolls his eyes, “What? You can ask my dear Warden yourself, if you'd like. Though that's a long journey just to...”  
  
“ _Your_ dear Warden?” Hawke interrupts, eyebrows climbing to his hairline.  
  
“Eh, it was a thing. I was her elven assassin, she was my dear Warden. You understand how these things work,” Zevran answers.  
  
“Apparently,” Hawke sighs.  
  
“Is there anyone that you have not slept with?” Anders snaps.  
  
“Three out of four people here,” Zevran replies smoothly, making Isabella laugh. “Not including myself, of course.”  
  
“If the Warden trusted him, I see no reason for us not to,” Fenris points out. “It's not as though promiscuity has kept people from fighting by your side before,” he adds with a brief look at Isabella.  
  
“I see what you're getting at, Elf,” Isabella says, but doesn't seem too put out. She seems too excited at the prospect of her former lover joining their band of misfits to let much else bother her.  
  
Hawke runs a hand over his face, apparently still unsure and distressed, but finally relents, “Okay, yes. We could admittedly use some extra help, what with the state things are in...”  
  
“What?” Anders practically squawks, keeping Hawke from finishing what he was saying.  
  
“Then I am at your service, dear Champion,” Zevran says, preempting Anders' inevitable tirade. Fenris grins to himself, just the tiniest bit.  
  
It's always nice to see Anders upset about something.  
  
~*~  
  
They fall into a routine surprisingly quickly. Zevran gets a room at the Hanged Man, insisting amidst Isabella's many protests that he get his own room instead of sharing with her—'A man needs some privacy once in a while, know?' He's easy to find around town when Hawke needs him: he seems to always be in his rooms at the Hanged Man, at the bar at the Hanged man, or in the Blooming Rose. Though admittedly, Fenris has never accompanied Hawke to the brothel to find the other elf actually with a prostitute, so Fenris isn't sure what he really does there.  
  
Zevran seems to get off on just flaunting himself about. Fenris supposes one could have much worse perversions. In fact, he knows as much.  
  
In battle, the other elf is deadly. He's quick and agile, darting and leaping, jumping and kicking. Somehow, they sync up naturally together. It becomes second nature for Fenris to read Zevran's body language, to catch his silent cues and react accordingly. And it seems Zevran always has his back, no matter what the situation.  
  
Hawke clearly notices as well, because he starts bringing them along as a team. It becomes more and more apparent to Fenris that he's never taken out to battle with Hawke without Zevran along by his side. Whether Zevran ever goes without him, he's not sure, but he's sorely tempted to ask.  
  
As close as they've gotten on the battlefield, though, they've barely spoken to one another outside of calling for help in the midst of battle, and asking if the other is alright. It's that afternoon on the Wounded Coast, trudging through the sand, that Fenris hears the other elf sneak up behind him and purr, “We work well together, no?”  
  
And well, he can't deny that, “Yes, we do.”  
  
Zevran chuckles to himself, as if at some private joke. Fenris watches him dubiously, wondering what his game is, but then the assassin steps in. “You're intriguing, Fenris. So quiet. So private.”  
  
“I speak when I have something to say,” Fenris counters, narrowing his eyes. Zevran hums in agreement, nodding his head, and Fenris waits before finally asking, “What of it?”  
  
“Honestly? You set me on edge,” Zevran says. “I've made a business out of reading people—bet my life on it from time to time. Yet I just can't figure you out.” He edges a bit closer, reaching a hand out to lightly touch one of Fenris' lyrium markings. Fenris flinches away on instinct, something Zevran catches with a keen, amber eye. “You clearly have great power, unnatural power,” Zevran continues. “But you are not a mage. At least I have never seen you cast a spell, that is...”  
  
“I am _not_ a mage,” Fenris finds himself growling, the tone of his voice probably giving away more than his words. Zevran nods at him, and touches another lyrium marking on his exposed bicep. Fenris forces himself to stay still.  
  
“Then it is something here,” he says, dragging a finger down. Fenris shivers, almost stumbling over his own two feet in the sand. Zevran doesn't comment on this, only continues with, “I would assume it to be some sort of lyrium compound. Except no man would be able to live through that.”  
  
“Apparently I did,” Fenris says, practically a sigh.  
  
“Wow, then you are strong beyond even these powers given to you,” Zevran notes. “You are lucky the Crows never found you—they would have dragged you in long ago.”  
  
“I am not lucky, nor have I ever been lucky,” Fenris snarls, ears flattening back against his skull. He watches Zevran's ears do the same, before the other elf gives him a short bow.  
  
“Forgive me. I seem to have overstepped my boundaries,” Zevran says. And with that, the elf scurries up ahead to where Hawke is, latching onto his shoulder and beginning to babble excitedly about something. Fenris scowls.  
  
He's practically forgotten about their forth companion until Isabella saunters up to his side and comments, “That was interesting.”  
  
“What?” Fenris snaps, then squinting at her, “Were you listening? Do you realize some people dislike eavesdroppers?”  
  
“I realize. And yes, I was,” Isabella replies. Then, “He's playing you like a fiddle, you know.”  
  
“Come again?”  
  
Isabella rolls her eyes. “Every one answer you give him, he gets five out of. And don't ask me how, I don't know. But that right there is how he does it—cool and cautious and nonthreatening.”  
  
Fenris frowns. “Why are you telling me this?” he asks. “Do you think he will get me in trouble? Turn me over to slavers?”  
  
“Oh, Maker, no!” she says, loud enough that both Hawke and Zevran glance back at her. Fenris nudges her in the side once they turn around, and she significantly lowers her voice, “But I know how you are, and I know how he is. And I don't want to see either of you hurt.”  
  
“I'll be fine,” he assures her, and she gives him a cautious little smile in return as they continue on down the coast.  
  
~*~  
  
That problem, Fenris realizes in the coming weeks, is that Isabella is wholly and completely right. Zevran somehow has him all figured out, while Fenris himself has not one clue about the assassin. And to top it all off, Zevran begins unabashedly hitting on him night and day.  
  
And yes, Fenris is sure it isn't just the harmless flirting that the assassin deals out to everyone. It's blatant, pointed propositioning. And Fenris is aware that he can only play dumb for so long.  
  
It comes to a head that Friday night at the Hanged Man gathered around Varric's table for Diamondback. As the night dwindles to a close, Isabella comments, “You know, Zevran? You've been here almost three months, now, and we've yet to have sex!”  
  
“More information than I needed,” Hawke comments, dropping a few coins into the pot. Fenris decides to fold at that—he's lost enough money for one night.  
  
“Ah, Isabella, you are right,” Zevran says. “I must admit, though, I have given up my old ways...”  
  
“What?” Isabella says, laughing. “Really? Zevran...”  
  
“I have!” Zevran says, though the grin on his face directed at Fenris is lascivious. “I have decided that I will only bed other elves from now on.”  
  
Isabella's laughter becomes louder, and all other eyes at the table are suddenly on Fenris as well. Fenris swallows, inwardly groaning, and says, “You are very subtle.”  
  
“I always did prefer the subtle approach,” Zevran says cheekily, then lays down the winning hand. Isabella's laughter stops.  
  
“How'd you do that? I was cheating,” she says.  
  
“As was I, my dear,” he says, and leans over to kiss her on the cheek. With that, he drags the coin over to himself, and announces, “I think I will call it a night, my friends!”  
  
“I'm not paying you for the next job we do,” Hawke tells him. “You just took half of my coin.”  
  
“As if I do it for the coin,” Zevran says, standing from the table. “It is about the thrill of the chase, the heat of battle!”  
  
“You are crazy, Assassin,” Varric comments. “Absolutely loony.”  
  
“I've been called worse,” Zevran replies, heading out of the room with a tossed 'goodbye' over his shoulder.  
  
Fenris contemplates approaching him that night, but is aware he'll never hear the end of it from the others. He has no intentions of sleeping with him anyway, and he just wants to tell him that. To lay off. It isn't going to happen, so he can drop it. Forget it, and move on.  
  
Somehow, he still ends up knocking on Zevran's door that night, waiting until the other elf answers, damn what Hawke and the others think. Zevran opens the door up momentarily, immediately looking Fenris up and down, undressing him with his eyes. Fenris sighs, and says, “I'm not here for whatever reason you think I am.”  
  
“No?” Zevran replies. “Then why, may I ask, are you here?”  
  
“I just want to talk,” Fenris says. Zevran nods, opening the door fully and motioning him in.  
  
“Come, then,” he says. “Take a seat. Make yourself comfortable, my friend. Would you like some brandy? It is the good sort—Antivan. Not the utter crap from downstairs.”  
  
“I have no intentions of getting drunk around you,” Fenris says bluntly, taking a seat as offered. “Though I thank you for the offer.”  
  
“Ah, well, let me know if you change your mind,” Zevran says, pulling up a chair to sit across from Fenris. He crosses his fingers under his chin, regarding Fenris a moment, before prompting, “So what did you want to discuss, my handsome friend?”  
  
Fenris can't help but roll his eyes. “I am not your handsome friend,” he says testily. “I am in no position to be anyone's lover right now. I want to be left alone.”  
  
Zevran's previous smirk flattens into a blank stare, and he eventually leans back in his seat with a sigh. “I think you have misunderstood me,” he says finally. “I do not expect anything of you, Fenris. It's just an open invitation for...”  
  
“Meaningless sex?” Fenris interrupts, an eyebrow raised.  
  
“No, no, not necessarily,” Zevran steps in. He huffs a sigh again, scratches the back of his neck, and finally says, “I see myself in you quite a bit.”  
  
“What, you think I'm a shameless slut?” Fenris growls, and Zevran laughs in reply.  
  
“No, no, of course not!” he says, and Fenris can read his charade of indignation with ease. “But I can spot a man who has been owned a mile away...”  
  
“I am not owned by anyone,” Fenris snarls, not even letting Zevran finish his sentence. Zevran simply holds up his hand.  
  
“Of course. I can see that you are not, as I am not. But for many, many years, I was. My two options in life were, 'kill' or 'be killed',” Zevran says. “What is it that they say? It takes one to know one?”  
  
Fenris doesn't respond. He's not sure what to say. Isabella's words come back to him from their trek down the Wounded Coast. He's suddenly very uncomfortable.  
  
“I don't expect anything from you,” Zevran says finally. “But it isn't often that one meets a kindred spirit.”  
  
“You consider us 'kindred spirits'?” Fenris asks with a scowl.  
  
“I know what it's like to kill against my will. And to have pain inflicted upon me against my will,” he answers. “And to be starved, with nothing to eat. And exhausted, with no time to sleep. And to wonder if I would be alive to see the sun rise again.”  
  
And when it's all put like that...  
  
“I'll be here, just know that,” Zevran finally says. “It is nice, at times, to know you aren't alone.”  
  
And Fenris nods, because he once again has no idea what to say.  
  
~*~  
  
“How did you meet him?” Fenris demands, marching up to Isabella at the bar. She looks shocked to see him for a moment, before quickly schooling her features into submission.  
  
“Who are you talking about, love?” she asks in return, though Fenris is fairly certain she already knows.  
  
“Zevran,” he growls. “And don't tell me 'sex'. You met him before you went to bed with him. I hope.”  
  
Isabella chuckles at him. “Why so curious all of a sudden?”  
  
“Just answer the question.”  
  
She cocks her hip out, motioning to the bartender for another drink. “How does one normally meet a Crow? They either kill you or kill for you,” she says, elaborating only when Fenris narrows his eyes. “I'd ran into him a few times on the docks at Antiva, and figured out what he was. And once it got bad enough, I slipped him the coin to kill my husband.”  
  
“You,” Fenris says haltingly. “You had your husband killed?”  
  
“Yes, I know, I tell people he died,” she says. “Which isn't technically a lie.”  
  
“And he did? Just kill him?”  
  
“Look, I've told you guys about my husband,” Isabella finally says with a sigh. “I'd tried to leave him so many times, and he always just tracked me down and dragged me back. I mean, he didn't physically beat me, but... That's all I can say for him. And Zevran could have gotten himself killed for taking a job outside of the Crows, but he did it anyway. For me. And for practically nothing—I only had a few sovereigns to give him at the time.”  
  
Fenris bites his lip, looking down at the table.  
  
“He's a good man, Fenris. A little abrasive, sure. But he looks out for his own,” she says eventually. “I don't know what's going on between you two, but just know—he's a good guy to have at your side. Or under you. Or on you, as it were.”  
  
“Very cute,” Fenris drawls.  
  
“Hey, I'd just like to put in a request to watch,” she replies, a large smile on her face. “At some point in time.”  
  
~*~  
  
Fenris thinks about it for a day. Then that day turns into a couple of days. Then those couple of days turns into a week.  
  
When Hawke takes them out on a raid to kill a bunch of slavers on the Wounded Coast, Fenris watches as Zevran leaps—fucking _leaps_ from the ground to land with his thighs wrapped around the head slaver's shoulders, and then proceeds to brings both his daggers down in an arch across the slaver's throat. Blood sprays everywhere from the wound, and Zevran rolls gracefully from the man's shoulders as he falls dead to the ground, springing back up to fight.  
  
The dead slaver is decked out in Tevinter robes, most likely a magister or an apprentice. Fenris doesn't think he's ever found Zevran as sexy as he does as that moment, covered in blood and grinning like a madman.  
  
“Fancy footwork,” Fenris mentions once the fighting has come to a close. Hawke is a ways away, going from slaver to slaver and looting their dead bodies. Zevran grins at him, wiping the blood from his face.  
  
“Ah, it was nothing,” Zevran says with a shrug, though Fenris can tell he's beaming with the praise. And Fenris suddenly _understands._  
  
He goes home to his own mansion first, drawing a bath and cleaning himself up, before traipsing back to Lowtown to the Hanged Man. He manages to sneak past Isabella without her noticing his presence—a blessed relief. He's not sure how he'd explain his sudden presence there on a quiet night besides the obvious.  
  
Varric's door is shut as he traipses by. Another stroke of luck.  
  
He knocks gently on the door to Zevran's rooms. He ends up waiting for quite a while, long enough that Fenris almost turns and leaves, thinking the other elf isn't there. But then the door is pulled open, Zevran peering out at him while rubbing a towel over his hair, a pair of cotton drawstring pants hanging low on his hips. He's obviously just out of the bath, his skin still a little damp.  
  
Fenris watches a droplet of water escape from the elf's hairline and cascade down his jaw, then ease its way down his neck, before realizing he should probably say something. “I've caught you at a bad time,” he manages.  
  
“Nonsense,” Zevran says, seemingly unconcerned my his state of dress. And his attractiveness. He motions Fenris inside, and asks, “What can I do for you?”  
  
“I wanted to talk. Again,” he says, and Zevran nods. It's all very reminiscent of last time. Fenris pulls up a chair, as does Zevran. Zevran busies himself with pulling the tangles from his hair with his fingers. Fenris sighs, and manages to say, “I was a slave. To a magister in Tevinter.”  
  
“I know,” is all Zevran says in response.  
  
“You know?”  
  
Zevran sighs. “You think you aren't an open book?” he finally asks. “Even if the others don't talk—which they do, they always will. You aren't hard to decode.”  
  
Fenris feels his nose wrinkle in spite, and says in return, “You killed Isabella's husband?”  
  
Zevran glances up at him. “Isabella told you.”  
  
“They talk,” Fenris parrots.  
  
“I did,” Zevran admits eventually. “He was abusive. She asked for him to be removed. I did it gladly.”  
  
“She told me he wasn't abusive,” Fenris counters, which makes Zevran laugh.  
  
“She's fond of saying that. He didn't 'beat her'. Which he didn't,” Zevran says. “But you and I both know, there are many other ways a man can be abusive.”  
  
And well, Fenris can't deny that. “How did you do it?” he asks out of morbid curiosity.  
  
“Kill him?” Zevran asks, and when Fenris nods, “I poisoned him. I didn't want to get my hands dirty. Harder to be tracked with poison.”  
  
They descend into silence for a while—and odd, heavy sort of silence. Zevran gets up eventually and throws his towel in a pile of dirty clothes in the corner, then goes and pours himself a glass of brandy. This time when Zevran offers, Fenris accepts a glass as well.  
  
“I slept with Hawke several years ago,” Fenris says. It's like ripping flesh, horrid and painful. He's not sure why he says it, but he suddenly feels he needs to. Zevran hums in a way that Fenris can't read, can't tell whether someone has gossiped to him and he knows, or whether this is new information. Regardless, he keeps talking. “It was stupid, and desperate. And I missed him for so long afterward, and now I'm just bitter.”  
  
“Have you been with anyone else since?” Zevran asks, calm and collected. Nonjudgmental. It's an odd tone of voice from him.  
  
“No,” Fenris says. “And I can't remember anyone from before. At least... I was a slave, and I always had to be by my master's side. It's hard to bed someone in that situation.”  
  
Zevran gives him a wry grin at that. “I'd imagine,” he says.  
  
“It's just—hard. To even let myself think about this again.”  
  
Zevran nods. “I told you. I don't expect anything from you. Whatever you're willing to give, that's...”  
  
He stops talking abruptly when Fenris reaches out and grabs him by the wrist. “It's difficult. But I'd like to try,” he says quietly.  
  
Zevran's soft grin is infectious, and Fenris watches as he sets his glass of brandy down on the floor and reaches for him. Fenris doesn't meet him halfway, but Zevran still closes the distance, bringing their lips together the kiss. It's a strange thing, feeling this intimate with someone again, and Fenris can't help but squeeze his fingers into Zevran's shoulder to anchor himself.  
  
~*~  
  
He doesn't dream of his past that night, for whatever reason. Instead, he has dreams of lingering kisses and touches, heavy breathing and moaning. He wakes up the next morning half-hard with Zevran lying in the bed next to him, one of Zevran's hands laid out on his stomach.  
  
A look at Zevran reveals him to still be asleep, his blonde hair fanned out on his pillow and lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Fenris turns his attention to the elf's hand instead, callused and hard from years of fighting, but still small and delicate, elven, like Fenris' own. He lets his own hand cover Zevran's, then begins playing with his knuckles, running his fingers down each of Zevran's.  
  
This wakes Zevran up eventually, the other elf stretching languidly in bed with a sinful groan. He shoots Fenris a sleepy smile before cuddling a little closer, letting the hand on Fenris' stomach wander up over his chest, trailing over a lyrium line, and then back down. His fingertips make their way over well-defined abs, along the crease between thigh and hip, finally to run down Fenris' shaft. Fenris feels his breath hitch slightly at the contact, especially once Zevran takes him fully in hand and lazily plays with his cockhead.  
  
“You're cut,” Zevran drawls absently. It takes Fenris a moment to follow the other elf's line of thinking, and he picks his head up from the pillow to glance around for blood. But then Zevran says, “You don't see that much, aside from Chantrymen...”  
  
“You've bedded a lot of Chantrymen?” Fenris counters, watching as Zevran smirks.  
  
“Here and there,” Zevran says. “So much pent-up frustration.”  
  
Fenris finds himself chuckling, then that chuckle broken off into a groan as Zevran runs a blunt fingernail along the underside of his cockhead. He feels Zevran smile against his jaw, and place a wet kiss there as well. Fenris finally mutters, “A lot of Tevinter households chose to circumcise their male slaves. They say we're less likely to seek sexual gratification on our own this way.”  
  
“Is it true?” Zevran asks.  
  
“Is what true?” Fenris counters.  
  
“Are you less likely to seek... 'sexual gratification'?”  
  
The way he asks the question is downright lecherous, and Fenris rolls his eyes. “I had no privacy as a slave, so I really cannot say.”  
  
“You have plenty of privacy now in that big, Hightown mansion.”  
  
“True,” Fenris relents. “It's good, as long as it's wet. I prefer to do it in the bath... Wait, why am I telling you this?”  
  
Zevran chuckles, lifting himself up to straddle Fenris' thighs, still idly stroking his cock. “I wouldn't think it inappropriate for you to discuss your masturbation habits with me, no? Not after last night, at least.”  
  
Fenris can't really argue with that. Zevran looks gorgeous overtop of him, back curled and head bowed as he watches his hand move over Fenris' body. His blond hair has dried messy from the night before, and hangs in wavy, mussed-up tendrils. Fenris reaches up and grabs a handful of it, pulling Zevran's mouth down to his own.  
  
Morning breath aside, it's still a damn good kiss.  
  
“Anyway,” Zevran breathes against his ear as they pull away, his hand still relentlessly teasing at his dick. “Anyway, I find it ridiculously sexy to think of you stretched out in the bath in that big mansion of yours, all tired after a long day of fighting, deciding to take a little time for yourself. Have a little fantasy—thinking of Isabella's sweet ass, you know you'd hit that—and taking this nice cock in your hand...”  
  
“It's been you recently,” Fenris admits. “I think of you.”  
  
“Mmm, I like that,” Zevran tells him, then eases off of his hips, letting him go. Fenris watches him, muscles moving under golden-brown skin, and can't help himself from glancing again at the other's hard cock. Un-cut, the foreskin tucked neatly around the head. “Come here,” Zevran says, and then once Fenris has gotten on his knees and is sidling over, “I haven't met anyone who hasn't liked this.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Fenris asks, a bad feeling settling in his chest at those words. But Zevran smiles reassuringly, looping a hand around the small of Fenris' back to draw him closer.  
  
“Here. Just relax,” Zevran says, taking Fenris' erection in hand and bringing it tip-to-tip with his own. He spreads their precome around between them, around each others' cockheads, and the pleasure of it spikes heady. Fenris puts a hand on Zevran's shoulder, gripping hard to ground himself, and watches between their bodies as Zevran continues on.  
  
It takes a couple of tries before anything actually happens, their cocks slipping together and out of his hand when Zevran goes to push them together, but Fenris can tell enough from the motions what Zevran is doing. But then Zevran is slowly pushing forward, and Fenris can feel the hot, moist pressure of Zevran's foreskin around his crown. He groans, low and throaty, and squeezes Zevran's shoulder hard.  
  
“Mmm, good, yes?” Zevran asks, and Fenris can only moan and nod vaguely in reply. He releases Zevran's shoulder to lay his head there instead, keeping his eyes trained between their bodies, back arched and hips curled forward. Zevran starts massaging them both together, rubbing their cockheads against each other within his foreskin, and Fenris can't keep from rocking his hips gently with the motion.  
  
Zevran comes first, the warmth of his seed caught between them and coating Fenris' erection, and the feeling alone has Fenris swearing and grappling at Zevran's thigh for purchase. But watching Zevran thrust into his hand, moaning out his orgasm, their cockheads brushing together amidst the slick—it's too much. He pushes his hips forward as his comes, feeling as if he's trying to crawl into Zevran's hand, deeper into the slick warmth of his foreskin. He feels Zevran's hand tighten around him, and he grunts in pleasure, nails digging into Zevran's thigh.  
  
As he comes down, it's almost too much. Too intimate and close. Zevran gently pulls away and releases him, and Fenris watches with lingering arousal as their come drips from under Zevran's foreskin. Too much, too close, too intimate. He sits back on his haunches, suddenly wondering if he's going to run again. Just like he ran with Hawke.  
  
But then Zevran is grinning like an idiot, using the edge of the sheet to wipe himself clean, and announces, “Damn, we are sexy beasts, my friend.”  
  
“What?” Fenris says, unable to stop from chuckling.  
  
“You heard me,” Zevran says, still grinning cheekily. Then, climbing out of the bed with all the grace of an assassin, “Ah, something to drink, I think.”  
  
And Fenris realizes maybe—just maybe—Zevran is just what he's needed all along.


End file.
